šovakar pirms iet ārā no mājas uz pikniku ar saldumi man bija tāda halucinācija, ka es pilnīgi iekliedzos balsī - pēc tam izrādījās, ka pāri dīvānam vienkārši pārripoja no kaut kurienes nokritusi matu gumija, bet es redzēju melnu, sprīdi garu, neticami ātru un lunkanu radījumu, tādu kā milzīgu spīļasti. tad ceļā uz parku, runājot par saviem argumentiem un ieganstiem, saplīsa manu vismīļāko šābrīža apavu (kas ir vienīgie apavi, ko esmu labprātīgi ar mieru valkāt vasarā), unisex sandaļu lences stiprinājums. bet es pagaidām atsakos ticēt, ka tās varētu būt zīmes, kas rāda, ka plānotais "new beginning" ir slikta ideja. kā var būt slikta ideja pārmaiņas pēc pierādīt sev, ka māku ne tikai (pa)ciest, bet arī realizēt proaktīvus risinājumus pati savas dzīves problēmām?

Eventually her sulk burned out. Eventually she calmed enough to realize the truth. You couldn’t fight the tide or change the wind. And if there was a storm? Well, a girl should batten down and bail, not run the rigging. How could she help but make a mess of things, the state that she was in? She’d strayed from the true way of things. First you set yourself to rights. And then your house. And then your corner of the sky. And after that . . . Well, then she didn’t rightly know what happened next. But she hoped that after that the world would start to run itself a bit, like a gear-watch proper fit and kissed with oil. That was what she hoped would happen. Because honestly, there were days she felt rubbed raw. She was so tired of being all herself.

//Patrick Rothfuss, The Slow Regard of Silent Things, 2014